Do work, son.

I wake up, my head is
thumping and hurting something fierce. It's reminding me of how
fucked up I got last night with whoever is sleeping in my bed
today. Just some local nobody that I picked up at the bar in my
disparity to get laid. I shrug and know I'm a local nobody too. I
should probably stop this, but I won't.

I fall out of bed and
make a decent amount of noise. I curse loudly and drag my knees
over the cheap carpet. My partner rolls over in the bed, grumbling.
I crawl around aimlessly for a bit before finally getting to my
feet when I get to the bathroom. The floor is cold and hard. I've
woken up still a little drunk and very much hungover. I want to
vomit, but I don't.

I stare in the mirror to
find a pair of hauntingly sad and exhausted eyes staring back at
me. I am twenty-four years old. I scratch the scruffy beard that's
beginning to grow on my face. I silently stand in the bathroom in
my wife beater and boxers. I look like I've been run over by
something. I splash water on my face. I want to wake up my partner,
but he's snoring now, so I don't.

It's quiet here. Someone
honks their horn below the apartment complex. I hear my ragged
breath rattle in my ribcage from the cigars and whatever else I
managed to get my hands on last night. In the mornings, my body
detests this poor treatment, but I'm not stopping anytime
soon.

Tonight, I have another
piano gig at a seedy bar downtown. I will the next night too… and
the next. I live paycheck to paycheck. I'm always right on the
edge, but I get by. I wonder who I can bring home
tonight.

My voice is low and
scratchy. "Who the fuck am I?" I already know the answer. It's long
and stupid.

I want to move on. I want
to grow up. I want to live.

I want to be
real.

I
can't.

I've become a slave; I've
become estranged from the former image of
myself.